


a storm, raging on the horizon

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Destiny, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, M/M, Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, if you follow me on tumblr that makes sense <3, jaskier is a personification of destiny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28971606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: So many contradictory parts, and maybe Geralt is just rusty with humans, but Jaskier seems...extra, like there’s a depth to him that can’t be found in your average townsperson. It’s intriguing, and Geralt has to shake himself every so often, stop himself from staring at the bard like a moth drawn to candle-light.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 131





	a storm, raging on the horizon

Geralt hates Jaskier. Hates how he smells, how he speaks sings walks talks  _ is _ . Hates his tenacity, the way he grits his teeth to patch up Geralt’s wounds even though they just started traveling together a few months ago. Geralt hates him on principle; he’s a witcher, and witchers are solitary creatures. Monsters who fight monsters and don’t stay anywhere long enough to grow attached. 

Which is precisely why it’s so irritating when Jaskier worms his way into Geralt’s life like he belongs there. Almost like he was  _ meant _ to be there.

That’s another thing that strikes Geralt as odd, once he’s resigned himself to the fact that Jaskier is now another facet of his life. How much Jaskier seems ready-made for any situation, personality sliding like a greased pig from one aspect to another depending on who he’s talking to. Couples fall in love at the strum of his lute, and he can usually coax an extra day’s pay out of the alderman without issue. He’s still a hopeless disaster of a human male; Geralt snorts, remembering the time Jaskier attempted to proposition a barmaid by telling her she had “soulful cow’s eyes.”

So many contradictory parts, and maybe Geralt is just rusty with humans, but Jaskier seems...extra, like there’s a depth to him that can’t be found in your average townsperson. It’s intriguing, and Geralt has to shake himself every so often, stop himself from staring at the bard like a moth drawn to candle-light. Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he’ll try to pin it down. His medallion doesn’t vibrate, so he’s  _ got _ to be human, or something with a strong enough glamour to throw it off. Geralt nearly laughs out loud, when he thinks that; the idea of  _ Jaskier _ being an old god is ridiculous to say the least.

Sometimes, though, he’s not so sure. Sometimes Jaskier’s eyes catch the light in a way that turns them into chips of sapphire, glinting cold in the early-morning light. On the rare occasion that the bard gets upset, something will enter his scent that Geralt’s  _ sure _ he’s never smelled before, smoky and deep and dangerous. But then he’s snapping back to himself, regular boisterous Jaskier composing songs about nothing and tripping over his own feet alongside Roach.

Geralt chalks it up to the sudden proximity to a human, for the first time in decades. Maybe human eyes just do that, like Geralt’s eyes reflect light in the darkness. And maybe the scent is just someone’s fire, somewhere, being caught by his extra-sensitive nose. For the most part Jaskier is just...Jaskier. Pretty and irritating and a million other things Geralt pretends not to know about, for the sake of his own sanity. His brothers in Kaer Morhen would  _ howl _ if they knew half the things Geralt thought about Jaskier, least of all his questionable humanity.

And then things start  _ happening _ .

Geralt accompanies Jaskier to a Cintran banquet, as protection, because at this point it would take a miracle for him to deny the bard anything. It’s a good enough night, as nights go. He’s bathed and stuffed into some of Jaskier’s clothes, fingers smoothing over the embroidered buttercups as the bard does up the laces in the back of his breeches.  _ Sneaky _ , he thinks, breathing in his scent, and Jaskier grins as though he’d heard. Geralt spends the night drinking and speaking with the Queen and flirting with Jaskier under the guise of saving him from cuckolded husbands. The first, oh, three-quarters, that is. Pavetta’s chosen shows up and fucks everything to shit, as expected, and Geralt helps save the day, as expected. His claim to the Law of Surprise is regretted as soon as he utters it, as Pavetta’s hand flutters to her belly and Geralt realizes he is  _ fucked _ . He storms out, angry at himself enough to almost,  _ almost _ drown out the part of him whispering that if it weren’t for Jaskier, none of this would’ve happened.

It’s seven years before they meet again. Jaskier, waylaid by the notoriously rich Countess Stael; Geralt, living the most mundanely he’s ever lived. Contract-to-contract, as usual, with an ache in his gut that grows the further he gets from Cintra, but other than that,  _ nothing.  _ It’s like Jaskier’s absence is making itself known, filling his days and nights with an eerie silence and stillness. Geralt shakes himself. The silence is only because Jaskier is loud enough for two people, and up until the banquet, they’d not spent a moment apart. 

As he rides into the Countess’ town, however, it’s like every sensation he’d been missing slams into him at once. He can’t eat, can’t sleep, and the tugging in his chest towards Cintra only grows stronger. In his desperation, he recalls a story about a djinn bottle in a river around these parts, and he’s stupid and tired enough to try it. So Geralt buys a net, ties up Roach, and goes fishing.

He’s not been at it for longer than an hour when a familiar voice floats his way.  _ Damn it, Jaskier _ , and then the bard is on him, fussing and prodding and prying like no time had passed between their last meeting and now. Geralt is  _ tired _ . He snaps back, belligerent and unyielding, until Jaskier asks what’s wrong in a tone of voice that says  _ hey, it’s me, it’s okay. _ Geralt rather feels like a horse being carefully soothed, but it’s all too easy to break when Jaskier’s looking at him like that. 

And then the stupid fucking idiot goes and pisses off a djinn. He’s dying, he’s terrified, and Geralt can’t think fast enough. All his training to not panic in life-or-death situations flies out a window, and all he can think is that if Jaskier dies, the world will have lost something too great to name. So he panics, takes Jaskier to the most unhelpful elf healer on the Continent, who points them in the general direction of a mage. As soon as they ride into the city, Geralt’s skin prickles with the knowledge that something here is deeply wrong. A suspicion that’s confirmed when they enter the mayor’s house to find the townspeople in a questionably consensual orgy, the woman Geralt assumes is the mage sitting pretty above it all.

She’s gorgeous, he can’t deny it, and if the adrenaline roiling in his chest wasn’t so overwhelming, Geralt would likely be incredibly attracted to her. For now, the only thought running through his head is  _ Jaskier, _ repeated like a prayer, over and over. The mage smirks, and the bargain is struck.

He’s not allowed in the room while she works, so naturally, he paces, gripping his hands to avoid biting his nails into stubs. It’s a habit ground out of him during his Trials, and the thought hasn’t struck in decades. Now, Geralt would like nothing more than to bite his fingers down into bloody stubs. The mage - Yennefer - exits, telling him that Jaskier is asleep, that he’s safe. Geralt nods, exhales, and allows the tension to drain out of his muscles.

They bathe together, backs kept carefully turned. Geralt expects sex, an empty payment for Jaskier’s life, but to his surprise, Yennefer deems it unnecessary. She’s a thousand times more powerful than he is, perhaps older, too, and there’s a damn allure to her that has him almost wishing she hadn’t. But then the guilt of  _ Jaskier _ comes crawling back in, and he almost can’t dry himself and dress fast enough.

The bard looks younger in sleep, calmer, and Geralt brushes a shaky hand over his hair, his cheek. There’s a heat simmering under his skin, though from a fever or something different, Geralt can’t tell. When he turns around, Yennefer is standing in the doorway, a wry twist to her lips.

“He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever seen. You’re...close?”

Geralt tenses his jaw. He doesn’t know if there’s a word to describe how he and Jaskier work. They’re more than friends, not that Geralt could ever admit it, but it’s not like they’re having sex or anything. So he nods, hands clenching and unclenching in the starched white sheets next to Jaskier’s leg. 

“He’s, uh. Very special to me.”

“Clearly.” Yennefer says, the same dry tone in her voice.

It’s the last thing Geralt remembers before he blacks out. Yennefer’s voice, and the scent of lilacs and gooseberries. 

He wakes in a prison cell to the realization that he’s been tricked.  _ Wakes, _ as if he ever slept. No, his body screams for sleep now more than ever, and it’s second only to the thought that he has to get Jaskier and get out of this wretched place. 

He accomplishes the former; Jaskier’s stumbling out of the mayor’s house, still covered in blood, but Geralt’s never been so glad to hear his blathering.

“Jaskier, you’re okay,” and it comes out rumbled, almost purred, from his chest, and far warmer than he’d meant. Jaskier reacts with surprise, tugging him along and babbling about a  _ crazy fucking mage, amphora on her belly, please can we just go- _

Amphora. Crazy mage there’s a djinn on the loose oh  _ fuck. _ Geralt shakes Jaskier off, ignores his pleas and anger in favor of sprinting full-tilt back to the house. He can’t let Yennefer die, though he doesn’t quite know why. He finds her naked, screaming and writhing and at the same moment he realizes  _ he _ has the djinn wishes, he’s in charge of the djinn but Yennefer is dying and his thoughts are moving too fast for him to keep up with. Geralt does the only thing that makes sense in the moment: he wishes to die with Yennefer. Djinn can’t kill their own masters, and he prays to whatever is out there that it works and that she’ll live. 

It works. She lives. And they barely make it out before the djinn explodes the ground where they just stood. And then somehow they’re fucking, relief and horror and attraction finally spilling over into the physical. After, Geralt finally,  _ finally _ , sleeps. But he does not sleep easy, and when he wakes, Jaskier is nowhere to be found.

The third beat of strange, inexplicably Jaskier-tied events happens on a mountain. The bard speaks oddly of the future, of places he’d like to go- he’d like  _ them _ to go. Together. Geralt ribs him, asks if he’s composing his next hit, but Jaskier falls uncharacteristically silent. Geralt catches another whiff of that smoky smell, a shiver running down his spine as Jaskier’s eyes turn molten in the setting sun.  _ Just trying to work out what pleases me _ , he says, and there’s a quivering tone of finality in his voice. Like he knows precisely what will happen, and that he’s powerless to stop it. 

That night, Geralt finds himself falling into Yennefer’s bed. He’s felt a tug toward her tent all night, and he knows she won’t turn him down. Geralt can’t tell if it’s the djinn wish, the fact that Yennefer is beautiful and wicked smart, or her general aura that draws him in, but he allows it, allows himself the luxury of not having to think so much and just  _ feel _ .  _ You could feel like this with Jaskier, too, _ his mind whispers, but then Yennefer wraps her legs around him and Geralt’s mind goes blank.

The mirage all comes crashing down the next day, as Borch reveals his secrets and both he and Yennefer disappear in rapid fashion. Geralt is angry, and alone, and  _ here fucking comes Jaskier. _ He shouts at him, too, asking for the blessing of being left fucking alone. Geralt realizes then that nearly every life-altering event he’s experienced in the past two decades has had something to do with Jaskier, even indirectly. Every song, every banquet, every breath has led to this moment; Geralt can feel the truth of it in his bones.

He turns back to the bard, who’s still sitting atop the ledge, head buried in his hands. There are so many things he wants to say, so many questions poised at the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them all down in favor of a simple one.

“Why?”

Jaskier sighs, head still resolutely hung. When he speaks, though, his voice is steady. 

“It was your destiny.  _ Is _ your destiny. I was put here to ensure that it happened. Believe me, darling, the amount of times I’ve tiptoed around to avoid triggering another life-altering event is quite ridiculous.” 

Jaskier’s tone is bitter, voice laced with an undercurrent of  _ something  _ that makes the back of Geralt’s neck prickle.

“Who are you?”

“Oh, everyone, no-one. People have their names for me. But for you, dear, I’m simply Jaskier, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Geralt doesn’t doubt the truth of the statement. Doesn’t doubt that if he dropped Jaskier right now, forced him away, the Jaskier he knows would cease to exist. He’d slip into someone else, easy as breathing, and keep orbiting Geralt’s life.

He doesn’t want that to happen.

Geralt wants Jaskier,  _ his _ Jaskier. Wants him in his bed and alongside his horse and in his life, for better or for worse, destiny be damned. He huffs a laugh that’s more of a cough, startling Jaskier into looking up. A tentative smile creeps on to his face as Geralt continues to laugh, wheezing until he’s breathless. When he’s able to straighten up, Jaskier’s right in front of him, head tipped quizzically. 

Now that Geralt knows (somewhat) what he is, he kicks himself for not noticing before. The way Jaskier’s curls catch the light, how his canines are just on this side of too long, the ice-shock blue of his eyes, all of it a pretty mockery of humans. Geralt’s okay with it; after all, he’s a monster, too.

Jaskier takes another step forward, leans in until their noses brush. Cautious, waiting for Geralt to move first. And, well, Geralt simply has no choice but to comply. He brushes his lips against Jaskier’s tentatively, giving him an out if he wants one, but Jaskier merely crowds closer, capturing Geralt’s mouth with his.

They stand like that until the sun goes down, trading kisses and touches and laughter like it’s the easiest thing in the world. And it is, it’s like breathing, it’s so  _ easy _ . There will be things to come later, he knows. He has a mage to apologize to, a Child Surprise to find, and a life to live with destiny by his side. 

For now, destiny demands his attention, and for once, Geralt doesn’t want to refuse it.

**Author's Note:**

> the smoky smell on jaskier is gunpowder, something im vaguely sure doesn't exist in this universe?  
> also. i have little to no memories of bottled appetites so everything in that beat is absolutely my own memories rewritten into something i can use!  
> i hope you all have been doing well! i am. subpar. lately. hence the small hiatus but! i have so many wips that i wanna finish so i should be back on track soon.  
> as always, come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/), for inane nonsense and witcher hot-takes and a chat if you need one!  
> continue to take the pandemic seriously or i will kneecap you on sight  
> xoxo static


End file.
